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Cerulean waters lap against our yellow canoe as yet another rainstorm threatens overhead. Dozens of jagged icefields ring this alpine lake, but this morning the towering peaks are playing hide-and-seek with the clouds.

The muggy air is soundless except for the slosh of paddles and the occasional call of loons as we round a bend in the 23-kilometre-long lake. It’s past 10 a.m., but we’re still ahead of the motorized tours that shuttle sightseers from historic Maligne Lake boathouse to tiny Spirit Island, one of the Rockies’ most photographed spots. Our two canoes and one kayak are heading another 10 kilometres beyond to the remote south end at Coronet Creek campground

My husband Ian enticed me here with the promise of the most stunning wilderness trip of my life. In the first hour of Day 2, I am not convinced. I’d like to see the icefields and mountains, not sagging, rain-swollen clouds. I want sunshine, warmth, and the chance to dangle my toes in the (frigid) lake. I don’t like sleeping in tents, especially one that leaks rain. And then there are bears. We saw two already on the drive to the lake. Omen, anyone?

Our boat trip with three friends actually began yesterday, when we drove 50 kilometres south of Jasper townsite to the dock on the northwest edge of the lake. The dock is fairly chaotic as we jostle for space among other campers, fishers and hikers. Over the next hour, the sky begins to spit as we jam the canoes to the gunwales with enough gear for a year and paddled three-plus hours to our pullout.

Fisherman’s Bay is one of only two designated campgrounds on Canada’s longest, deepest and arguably most scenic Rocky Mountain lake. The bruised sky lashes rain again as we rig tarps with other campers, and set up tents in the thick bush. Hubby had the wilderness part right. In fact, a sign behind our tent advises the trail near us is closed to record wildlife activity via special cameras. Oh good, documentation of what happens in the dark outside the tent. Also crucial: DO NOT pee anywhere near camp. It attracts bears.

Due to the number of travellers keen to explore this famous piece of Alberta, both campgrounds allow a maximum stay of just two nights at each, or four overall. Both places are booked months in advance through Parks Canada, and are only accessible by boat. Camp spot availability opens up in late summer and fall, a bonus as the weather is generally more stable and the crowds much smaller.

Those not comfortable or capable of going the backcountry route (physical stamina and paddling experience are advised) can still get part of the million-dollar views from late May to October. Maligne Lake Tours runs 90-minute trips aboard glass-enclosed boats to Spirit Island, carrying hundreds of visitors any given day. Kayaks, pedal-boats and canoes can also be rented at the boathouse, meaning the north end of the lake can be a pretty busy place. Maligne Tours hopes to further develop its property, although Ottawa recently rejected its proposal for an overnight resort. Tent camps are still under review (see sidebar).

As we head out of Fisherman’s Bay and glide past the still-deserted Spirit Island stop, there are no other watercraft in sight. The wind is still and the clouds are lifting. The lake reflects like mirrored glass — countless tiny sediment particles in the water change the colour from turquoise to emerald to sky blue. It’s unique to many of the other glacial lakes, such as Bow Lake and Pinto Lake on the Icefields Parkway between Jasper and Lake Louise.

Maligne’s wind gusts can be fierce and unpredictable, so we stick close to shore — nobody is keen on an impromptu swim. My husband and I wordlessly settle into a Zen-like rhythm, slack-jawed as we glide past impenetrable forests and sheer rock faces pockmarked with crusted snow. My neck stiffens from craning to see vast alpine meadows, icefields the size of a giant’s football stadium and vast rock gardens carved through receded ice.

The still lake waters reflect the panorama overhead with incredible detail, from roiling waterfalls, ice-caked ledges and crumbling snowbanks. Even with the swoosh of paddles, the quiet is deafening. No distant jets, no traffic hum. Near shore, I fully expect in a perfect Robert Bateman moment to see a humpbacked grizzly and cubs emerge from the tangle of pine trees, but the vastness of the landscape soon has me cross-eyed. It’s the proverbial needle in a haystack — the mountain goats I see are simply rocks, the bears in the brush are merely blackened tree stumps and gnarled branches.

Our lazy float to Coronet Creek takes about three hours, and a few other paddlers have already arrived. Tucked into the trees and flanked by lush green avalanche runs and rock walls that seem to scrape the sky, the camp is clean, carpeted in wildflowers and well organized with bear caches and firepits well away from tent sites. (The distant loo, on the other hand, could use some work. The epic antics of ‘Lumpy’ the poo mascot, chronicled in campground journals, is best left for another time.)

After chatting with fellow paddlers, many of them European, we agree to set up tents and tarps in case the rain resumes, then retire to the floating wooden dock for a frosty beverage and snacks. The sun has emerged — for now at least — and we’re ready to relax when we hear the first “CRACK!” We race for different vantage points along the trails to see which of the mountains overhead has released a deafening load of snow, ice and rock. It’s a moment of marvel, particularly for visitors — including an arriving group of kayakers who are lucky enough to catch sight of the falling mountain.

The second day of our Maligne Lake adventure ends quietly: dinner, drinks around the campfire, catching up with friends old and new. We’re eternally grateful we booked a second night at Coronet Creek, so Day 3 will be spent in the true lounge lizard style I had pictured for this trip. Our friend Nordic Bob casts some lures, but comes up empty-handed. His wife Sylvia and I stretch out on the docks, SPF 40 nearby, while my hubby a.k.a. the gear slut pulls a Paul Bunyan, wields his new folding saw and supplies the entire campground with firewood.

Our solo kayaking companion Guillermo heads for a 16-kilometre hike, but we decline. It’s hot and sunny, and we want to explore the shore by boat. We collect driftwood, clamber in creeks beneath the headwaters of a glacier, paddle near the mouth of a waterfall and stare for wildlife through binoculars. The guys in our group take turns diving off the dock into crazy cold water. Sylvia and I, on the other hand, chose not to end our near-perfect trip in cardiac arrest.

On Morning Four, I am sad to leave this spot, though my pain was eased by French toast with caramel praline syrup and fresh fruit produced by Sylvia and Bob. (Did I mention I gained weight on this trip?) I scoured the visitor journal tucked into a black metal stand and was so touched by the great stories, I left my old reading glasses behind for someone else with mid-life eyes. It was a postcard-perfect departure and we had the full 23 kilometres ahead (we should have booked a final night at Fisherman’s Bay), so there no time to dawdle.

Yet it was too stunning not to savour; remarkable rock faces etched with history; layers, colours and shapes that put man-made monoliths like Mount Rushmore to shame. Ian calls out and I look back to see a long serpentine trail from the wake of our canoe is perfectly etched in a bed of yellow pollen. Eat your heart out, Monet.

After we break for lunch — it is now 28C and the call of home is strong — the weaker paddlers (us) fall behind as we head back to the north section of lake. It is busy with watercraft. A tour boat slows to pass us, and it’s a Kodak moment as passengers race, cameras and cellphones in hand, to snap a moment of Canadiana. Our ruddy faces light up (we’ve been those tourists) and we dig deep with our paddles, politely waving for the cameras with our paddles aloft. This is Canada, after all.

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Paddling and camping on the majestic Maligne Lake in Jasper National Park

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